Suder

Chapter 10

Sid Willis is an old fella who used to play ball and he’s got this boat he all but lives on and I decide to look him up. I drive out to the docks and park and take off along the waterfront, carrying my saxophone, phonograph, and record. There are lots of people milling about and buying fish. The air is full of the smell of fish and the shouts of the men selling the fish. I’m walking along, looking out over the Sound, and the sunlight is bouncing off the water and I think it’s real pretty.

There’s a great big tent in this parking lot, like the ones they use at revival meetings. I hear something like a blast from a horn and I think it sounds like an elephant. I walk into the tent and sure enough there’s an elephant. It really smells in the tent and though they got big fans blowing it’s hot and sticky. The elephant lets out another blast. There’s a man standing on a platform next to the elephant and he’s barking like a carnival man.

“Test your smarts! Test your inventiveness! Test your ingenuity!” he shouts. “Two dollars for a chance at five hundred! Two dollars for a chance at five hundred! If you can make the pachyderm jump up from the ground I’ll give you five hundred dollars! Two dollars to try!” He stops and views the crowd. “Test your smarts! Test your …”

People are paying him and walking back to stand in line. These folks are carrying all sorts of things. I’m watching and not really believing it as these people take turns trying to make this elephant jump up. A man with a set of cymbals stands just off to the side of the elephant and slams them together. The elephant doesn’t budge. A kid lights a string of firecrackers and tosses it down by the pachyderm’s feet. No reaction. I watch as an old woman shoves a hatpin into the animal’s hide and I see a little girl let mice out of a shoe box and an old man fire a pistol by one of them giant ears. The elephant doesn’t move a muscle, just stands there.

I turn around and walk out of the tent and back to my car, where I open the trunk and pull out my baseball bat. I stow it under my arm next to my saxophone and I walk back to the tent. I left Thelma pretty suddenly, so I ain’t got no bucks to speak of. I could use the five hundred and I know just how to get it. I pay the woman two dollars and take a place in line. I wait while a number of people try and fail to make the elephant jump.

It’s my turn. I put my saxophone, record, and phonograph down on some hay and take my bat around in front of the elephant. I wave the bat in his face and I walk around to the back of him and I get into my stance, my feet on either side of the big chain attached to his leg. Then I swing like I’ve been given the green light and hit that elephant flush in the balls and he lets out this god-awful trumpet blast and jumps clear off the ground. Everyone is stunned and quiet.

I flip the bat in my hand like a baton and the man from the platform walks over to me. He stands there for a second with wet eyes, just looking at me.

“Well,” I says, “I did it.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls out a great big wad of money and counts me out five hundred.

“Thanks.” I close my fingers around the money and look over at the elephant. The animal is stepping forward and back.

The man turns and walks back to the platform and waves his arms and announces that he is now closed. I put the money in my pants and I pick up all my things and leave the tent.

I walk on down the waterfront and then I see Sid Willis’s boat, The Ugly Lady. Sid is standing on deck and he turns and sees me when I’m halfway down the pier to his boat. A smile comes across his dark face and his eyes light up under that big bush of a eyebrow that stretches across his forehead and the sunlight is playing on his bald top.

“Hey there, Sid,” I says.

“Craig Suder?”

“Yeah.” I stop in front of him.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He laughs. “Come on aboard, boy.”

I hop onto the boat.

He reaches to grab my hand, but my arms are full. “Put something down,” he says, “so I can shake your paw.”

I put my saxophone and everything down and I take his hand. “It’s good to see you, Sid.”

“It’s good to see you, boy. I’ll be damned. Just come by to chew the fat?”

“No, I’ve come by to see if I can spend a few days with you.”

“You don’t say. Well, damn.” He runs his hand over his head. “I’d be glad to have you. Stay as long as you like. I been needing some company. Well, damn.” He looks out over the Sound. “Want a beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on,” he says and turns and goes down a ladder into the cabin.

I follow. “How come you call your boat The Ugly Lady?” I ask.

“Named her after my second wife.” He reaches into the ice chest and pulls out a beer and tosses it to me.

“Thanks.”

He pulls one out for himself. “What you doing here in the middle of the season?”

“Let’s say I’m on vacation.”

“You get axed?”

“No.”

“Slump?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you can stay here as long as you like.” He pulls his hand over his head and rubs the perspiration between his fingers. “Let’s sit up on deck.” We go up on deck and sit down. “What about things at home?”

I question him with my eyes.

“Things at home okay?”

“Fine.” I finish my beer.

“Damn, you went through that fast. Want another?”

I shake my head. “I just thought I’d come by and pay you a visit and maybe sneak some fishing in.”

“Fishing, it is,” he says. “I got some cod in the cooler right now. You want to head out some and poke around for tuna?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He looks up at the sky. “Well, hell, we couldn’t have asked for a prettier day. What do you say we head out now?”

I nod. “Can I put my things below?”

“Yeah, yeah, make yourself at home.”

I take my things down into the cabin and then I’m back on deck.

“Why don’t you untie that there,” says Sid, pointing to where the boat is tied to the pier.

I do as he says and then he cranks up the motor and we’re off. I climb up the ladder to where he’s steering the boat. I’m looking ahead out the window.

“Not much traffic today,” he says. “I got a great spot.” He pauses and looks at me. “I’ll be damned.” He’s smiling and shaking his head.

We cruise through the Sound and head three or four miles out. We drop in a couple of lines and just sorta set back and take it easy. The sun is bright and the breeze is good and I get relaxed. I start to drift off into sleep.

“I got one!” Sid says, sitting up straight.

I sit up and see his taut line and then this fish shows himself. “Look at the size of that baby,” I says.

“Yeah, that’s a nice-sized one. Nice size.” He lowers his rod and lets the fish run.

I’m standing up and walking around in back of Sid. “Look at that sucker go.”

The line stops feeding out and Sid pulls up on the rod and starts reeling him in. The line becomes really taut again and Sid points the tip of the rod at the fish once more. “You gotta play him right, boy.” He pulls his face across his shoulder. “Do me a favor, Craig, and wipe the sweat off my head.”

I am looking for something to wipe his head with. “What do you want me to use?”

“Take the rag out of my back pocket.” He starts reeling the fish in again. “The sweat’s real annoying.”

I pull the rag across that shiny dome of his. “There you go.”

A half hour passes with me periodically wiping the sweat off his top. He’s letting the fish run again and he looks up at me.

“Boy, I’m tired,” Sid says. “Take this thing while he’s running. He’s weakening, I can tell.”

I take the rod and reel and his seat and he takes to wiping perspiration from his face and head. “Play him, boy,” he says as I start reeling. He ducks down into the cabin and comes up with a bottle of bourbon. “Play him, Craig.” He moves behind me. “That’s it, bring him in.”

I continue to reel him in.

“That line’s looking mighty hard. Maybe you should let him out some.” I push the button and point the rod down and the fish takes off. “My hands are getting real sweaty,” I says to Sid.

He doesn’t answer.

I start reeling again. “My hands,” I says.

“That’s it, reel him in.” He takes a swig from the bottle. “Let him out again.”

I forget to push the button and I point the tip of the rod at the fish and the whole works is ripped right out of my hands. I close my eyes.

“Damn shame,” says Sid and he walks away and down into the cabin.

I sit there for a long while, just looking at the ocean.

We’re starting to lose daylight as we pull into the dock. I hop out of the boat and tie it up. Sid is standing on deck, taking a swig from his bottle of bourbon.

“I’ve got something I want you to hear,” I says.

“Yeah?” He screws the cap onto his bottle. “What is it?”

“I’ll get it. Hold on.” I go down into the cabin and come up with my phonograph and my record. I’m looking around for an outlet and then I look at Sid.

Sid points to the base of a lamp on the pier.

I jump off the boat and plug in the machine and play the record.

“That’s real pretty,” Sid says. “Who is it?”

“This is Charlie Parker.” I smile.

“Yeah, that’s real pretty.” He looks at the lights around. “What do you say we go scout out some women?”

I pick the needle up off the record and I’m really pleased that he likes it. “Where do you want to go?”

“There’re a couple of bars around here.”

“Sure. Let me get my horn.” I run into the cabin and grab my saxophone. I pick up my phonograph and record and we walk away from the boat.

“You need to carry all that shit?” Sid wants to know.

“Yeah.”

We walk along the waterfront until we come to this little tavern. There ain’t many people inside and we grab a couple of stools. I put my things on the bar and the bartender tells me I have to move it all. I put my phonograph and record on the floor and I hold my horn in my lap. We down a couple of beers and the place starts to fill up.

This guy hops on a stool in the middle of the floor and he’s holding a guitar. He starts to playing and singing, but what he’s playing ain’t nothing like Charlie Parker.

“Craig,” Sid says, “if you just gonna keep that horn in your lap, it’s about as useful as tits on a boar hog.” He pauses. “If you ask me.”

I don’t say anything. I just look back at the fella singing. I pick my saxophone up out of my lap and walk over to the singer. I stand there right in front of him and he stops in the middle of a song.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“You know ‘Ornithology’?”

“No, who’s it by?”

“Charlie Parker.”

He looks at me, puzzled-like.

“Charlie Parker, the saxophone player.”

“I don’t know him or the song.”

“I’ll play it for you.” I walk to where Sid is sitting. People in the tavern are grumbling: “Hey, what happened to the music?” “What’s the story here?” “Let’s have a song!”

“What you doing, boy?” Sid asks.

“I’m gonna play the song for him.” I pick up my phonograph and record off the floor. I walk back to the middle of the floor and I’m looking around for an outlet.

“Hey, friend,” the singer says, “why don’t you wait until I finish this set? I’ll listen to it then.”

“Well, I don’t see an outlet. I guess I’ll just have to play it on my horn.” I put the mouthpiece to my lips and start blowing. I’m making a lot of honking sounds.

“Somebody make that drunk sit down!” someone shouts.

“Take that weapon away from him,” says another.

The singer pulls on my arm. “You’re upsetting everybody.”

I stop playing and look into all the faces, annoyed and angry faces. I take my things and walk back to the bar.

Sid slaps my back. “That was pitiful.”

The bartender puts a beer in front of me. “Ain’t you Craig Suder?” he asks.

I look at him for a long second and then I get up and walk out of the place.

Sid follows me out. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Sid slaps me on the shoulder with the back of his hand as two women thick with makeup walk past us into the bar. “You see the way she looked at me?”

“No.”

“She’s got eyes for me.”

“You’re imagining things. Let’s go.”

“No, no, I’ve got to check this out.” Sid starts back into the bar. “Come on.”

“You go on. I think I’ll head back to the boat.”

“Suit yourself.” He disappears into the tavern.

The whole house felt like it was shaking. I crawled over Martin and his bed to the window and saw a big truck parked out front.

“What is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.

“A truck.” I slid into my slippers and ran downstairs.

Ma was standing at the open door in her coat, rubbing a dish towel over her hands.

“What is it?” I asked and I looked out into the yard and saw Daddy approaching the truck from his office. I ran out into the yard. “Daddy, what is it?”

Martin was out of the house now in pants and tee-shirt.

The men from the truck were pulling a great big piano out and down the ramp.

“What’s the piano for?” Martin asked.

“It’s Mr. Powell’s,” Daddy said. “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

Daddy watched the piano move past us toward the house. “He’s taking a little rest here.” Daddy turned and walked back to his office.

Martin and I watched as the movers removed the legs of the piano and slipped it into the house. The big grand piano took up most of the living room and we had to detour clean around it to get to the stairs.

Martin and I sat on the stairs, looking down at the piano. “Pretty neat, huh?” I said.

Martin didn’t say anything.

“You don’t like Mr. Powell, do you?”

“I like him okay.”

Ma came into the living room and started polishing the piano.

“Where are you going?” Daddy asked Ma.

Ma had her pocketbook and was by the door. “I’m going to a meeting.”

“What sort of meeting?”

“Dr. McCoy’s Bible group.”

Daddy’s palm flew up against the door and he leaned, holding the door tight. “Put your bag down. You’re not going.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not getting tied up with that lunatic McCoy.”

“Why not? I’m a lunatic.”

Daddy snatched Ma’s pocketbook away. “Go upstairs!”

Ma went running upstairs, crying. Daddy fell against the door and rubbed his forehead. He tossed Ma’s bag into the umbrella stand, walked into the living room, and sat on the piano bench.

I sat beside him. “When does Mr. Powell get here?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

“In the morning,” Daddy said.

“Daddy, is Mr. Powell sick?”

“He’s tired. He’s coming here to rest.”

Just then, Martin came running into the house. “Daddy! Daddy! Come quick!” he shouted.

Daddy was up and following Martin through the front door and I was close behind. We ran out into the clear night to see Dr. McCoy standing next to our house, looking up into a tree. Ma was in the tree, trying to get down.

“Hey!” Daddy yelled.

McCoy didn’t even turn to look, he just ran to the street and climbed into his white Cadillac. Daddy picked up a stone and hurled it at McCoy and then he turned to Ma.

“Come down, Kathy,” Daddy said.

“I can’t. I’m stuck.”

“Then go back through the window.”

“I can’t.”

“Try!”

“I can’t.”

“Then jump!” Daddy shouted.

“Are you crazy?”

Daddy looked at Martin and me. “It’s only a few feet. Jump!”

Ma jumped and rolled across the ground. Daddy helped her up and took her inside. Martin was shaking his head. His eyes caught mine.

“She really oughta be put someplace,” Martin said.

“She’s our mother,” I said.

“So? Crazy is crazy and crazy people should be put away somewhere.”

I turned and walked into the house.

The next morning Martin and I left the house and went to the old school yard. We were just standing around with Bucky and Wendell and Fred. They were Martin’s age. Bucky was bouncing a basketball against the wall of the building.

“What was all that in your yard last night?” asked Wendell, who lived across the street from us.

“That was their mama,” said Fred, Wendell’s twin brother. “Their mama was in a tree.” They laughed.

Bucky caught the ball off the wall. “Your mama is touched, huh, Martin?”

“You take that back,” I said, stepping toward Bucky.

Martin pulled me back. “Calm down. He’s right.”

I stared angrily at Martin.

“Well, well, well,” said Fred, looking across the street. “That’s Naomi Watkins.” He pointed with his head.

“Word’s out that she does it,” Wendell said.

“Oh, yeah,” Martin said, staring.

Bucky stopped bouncing the ball and turned around. “Like that, do you?” he asked, tossing the ball to Martin.

“You don’t want any of that,” said Wendell. “They say she’s got VB.”

“That’s VD, stupid,” Martin said.

“Oh.”

“Maybe Craig wants to take her on,” Bucky said.

I was just looking at her. I thought she was real pretty.

“Go talk to her,” Bucky said to me.

“Yeah, go on,” said Fred, pushing me, “little man.”

“Leave me alone,” I said.

Martin laughed.

Chapter 11

Mr. Powell was sitting at the piano, staring at the keys, when I walked into the house. He didn’t notice me. He just kept staring at the keys. I slowly walked toward him. I was next to him.

“Hey there, Bird,” he said, turning his face to me.

“Hey, Mr. Powell,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the keys.”

“How come?”

“Listen to this.” He started playing. “This is a song called ‘Ornithology.’ Charlie Parker wrote it.”

“That’s pretty.”

“I’m playing it slow, but it don’t matter. Long as I play it.”

“That’s real pretty.”

“That’s jazz,” he said, and tossed his eyes to the ceiling, “and jazz is life. Jazz is life.”

“What is it?”

Mr. Powell looked at me and stopped playing. “What is what?”

“What is jazz?”

He hit a chord and held it. “Jazz is one step beyond, one giant step.” He hit another chord. “Charlie Parker is dead now, but not really.”

We were silent for a time while he struck a series of chords that filled the room. Then Ma came trotting through in her coat and she went out the front door. Mr. Powell stopped playing.

“My mother’s crazy,” I said. My eyes fell to my lap.

“Maybe not crazy,” said Mr. Powell. “Maybe just different.”

I looked at his eyes. They were tired, somehow distant.

“Why don’t you run on now and play.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you later, Mr. Powell.” I headed for the door.

“Hey, Bird.”

I turned.

“Call me Bud.”

I’m naked under the covers in the cabin of Sid’s boat when I hear some voices on deck. I can make out Sid’s voice and I can hear at least two female voices and they all sound drunk. They’re loud and laughing and I hear them knocking things over. I pull the blanket up around my neck and close my eyes and try to block the noise out. Then the hatch opens and I hear someone stumbling down the ladder and the light comes on. I shade my eyes and I’m looking at Sid and he’s swaying from side to side.

“Got something for you, boy,” he says and he raises a hand and helps this woman down the steps into the cabin. “Ain’t she something?”

I sit up and pull the blanket across my lap.

“Here he is, gal,” Sid says to the woman, and then to me, “I gotta go back topside. I got two for myself.” He starts up the stairs and then leans back. “I had no idea things would work out like this. Boy, you’re my good-luck charm.” He heads out. “Damn!”

The woman Sid leaves with me is out-of-her-head drunk and she’s staggering around, talking all sorts of nonsense. “You know Timmy?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“You don’t know Timmy? That’s too bad. Timmy is some body you should know.” She points a finger at me and takes a step closer. “You’re not Timmy.”

“No.” I don’t know quite what to do, but dressing seems like a good idea and I reach for my pants, which are on the floor by my feet.

“What are you doing?” she asks, frightened.

“Putting on my pants.”

“No, don’t pull a knife!”

I just tilt my head and look at her.

She screams.

The hatch opens and Sid yells down, “Go get her, boy!”

The woman looks at me silently and then she closes her eyes and begins to sway. Then, just like a felled tree, she topples toward me. I catch her and lay her on the bunk. She’s out cold and I look at her face and I think her features sorta attractive. She ain’t covered with paint and powder like the women Sid went chasing after and I notice that I have an erection. I look under the blanket at myself and then I look at the woman and she looks even better than before. The next thing I know I’m taking her clothes off and sliding her well onto the bunk. I hold myself over her for a long time, wondering if I should do it to an unconscious woman. Yes. I lower myself on top of her and I’m looking at her face and her eyes open. Her eyes open wide and my pecker goes limp and I roll off of her and stare at the wall.

“What’s wrong, Timmy?”

I roll over.

She sees my face. “You’re not Timmy!” She looks and finds that she ain’t got no clothes on. She screams and grabs her clothes and runs out.

I pull my britches on and step up to the deck and see the woman who was with me running down the pier. Sid is doing pushups and two real-made-up women are watching him.

“How many is that, sugar?” Sid asks one of the women.

“Twenty-something,” she says.

Then as Sid is holding himself up, arms stiff, he vomits.

“Maybe you should stop,” says the other woman.

“Naw,” Sid says and continues to do pushups. He does about four more and his face is coming really close to his mess. Then he passes out and plops facedown into his vomit.

The women look at each other and frown and then pick up their things and leave the boat. I watch them as they stagger away down the pier and along the waterfront. Then I check on Sid. I’m afraid he might drown in his puke, so I roll him over and pull his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe his face.

Sid comes to. “How many was that?” he asks and then he passes out again.

I toss a blanket over him and then I climb back down into the cabin and go to sleep.

We played church-league baseball. Martin and I were teammates on the First Calvary Baptist Bulldogs. Bud and Ma came to watch us play the Bethel A.M.E. Tigers. Daddy had to work. I was glad Bud had come, but it sorta turned my stomach to see Ma in the stands, with all the other parents, wearing her heavy coat. It was ninety-five degrees.

The first time Martin stepped up to bat, Ma ran down the bleachers and to the high fence behind the catcher. Her fingers grabbed the chain-link fence like she was a caged animal. She yelled at Martin. “You pull on yourself, Martin!” She moved along the fence. “You’re a disgusting person, Martin! My son, the pervert!” Martin looked ahead at the pitcher. “Clench that bat, Martin!” Ma shouted. “Wrap those nasty fingers around it. Is that how you hold it, Martin?”

Martin swung wildly at three pitches and was out.

“You’re out, Martin! You’re out! Now you can do it on the bench!”

Bud came down and grabbed Ma and pulled her back to the bleachers.

Then I came up to bat. “Come on, Craigie!” Ma screamed. I slapped the ball into an empty spot in left field and started for first. All of a sudden I realized that I wasn’t alone on the baseline. Ma was beside me. “Come on,” she said, “hurry up, move it.” I stopped running and looked over at Mr. Jeffcoat, the manager of our team; his face was in his hands. I looked at Bud and he shrugged his shoulders. The left fielder held the ball and looked on. Ma was at first base now, yelling for me to come in. I trotted on to first. The umpire asked Ma to leave the playing area. She nodded and walked back toward the bleachers.

On her way to the stands, Ma stopped at the Bulldog bench to yell at Martin. “Your brother got a hit, Martin. Why couldn’t you? Does the hair on your palms make the bat slip?”

Martin got up and ran away. I just stood with my foot on first, my hands resting on my knees and tears rolling down my face.

Soon the game was going again. I tried to endure the embarrassment, but I failed. As soon as our side was out, I slipped away and ran home.

Martin was lying facedown on his bed, crying, when I walked in.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He sat up quickly and glared at me. “Just go away. Why don’t you and Ma just go away?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Leave me alone.” He ran out of the room.

I stretched out on my bed and looked at the ceiling. I tried to hate Ma, but I didn’t understand enough to hate her. I was just confused. I wondered if the fact that I didn’t hate her meant that I was crazy.

That night we sat around and listened to Bud play the piano. Daddy and I really enjoyed it, but Martin seemed annoyed. He was upset about the game and not thrilled at all by Bud Powell’s presence.

“Play that song,” I said, ‘Orthinology.’”

“That’s ‘Ornithology,’” Daddy corrected me.

“I’ll play it for you, Bird.” Bud played it. I could feel the push of the song, a tension. It seemed like Bud was going somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go.

I was looking for Martin. I walked down to the pond and kicked a couple of dead sparrows. Then I went looking around Wendell and Fred’s house across the street. There was an old toolshed in their backyard that the fellas used as a clubhouse. I could hear laughing and so I peeked inside through a space between two boards. Sitting on the only chair was Naomi Watkins, her dress pulled up and held under her elbows, so her lacy panties showed. But I could only look at her face. She had a real pretty face. I could see Martin and the twins. Then somebody grabbed me from behind. It was Bucky.

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself, peeking in at people.” He pushed me inside. “Look what I found.”

“Hey, hey, just in time,” said Wendell. He winked at his brother.

Martin looked at me angrily. He was still upset about Ma and the baseball game. It didn’t matter to him that I had been embarrassed, too. “Make him touch it.”

I fought Bucky’s hold and then Fred helped him control me. Wendell grabbed my hand and pulled it toward Naomi’s crotch. Wendell moved the back of my hand against the smooth panties. I looked right into Naomi’s eyes. Her eyes were soft, vacant in a way, somehow stupid.

“No, make him touch it, really touch it,” Martin said and then he yanked Naomi’s underwear to her knees.

I struggled, but slowly Wendell pulled my hand down again. I closed my eyes tightly as my fingers pushed against the soft hair and soft flesh. I opened my eyes and found Naomi smiling a stupid smile. I screamed and ripped away from their grasp and ran out of the shed. I ran home and into the bathroom, where I held my fingers under the running water for a long time.

I went into my bedroom and looked out the window. Ma was sprinting back and forth across the yard. I could hear Bud playing the piano downstairs. I kept hearing his words. He said that maybe Ma was just different. I was searching for “just different” in the woman dashing back and forth, back and forth, but all I saw was crazy. And again I was scared to death that whatever sickness was loose in my mother was also loose in me. I closed my eyes and told myself I wasn’t crazy. I left my room, walked down the back stairs, and entered the garage. I took the hatbox of dead birds from behind the tires and carried it to the trash can by the street. I went back into the house and sat on the sofa while Bud played. I fell asleep.

“Wake up, Craig.” Sid is shaking me.

My eyes open and I yawn and I stretch a little. “What is it?” I ask in the middle of a second yawn.

“Time to get up,” he says, walking across the cabin. He stops at the counter and pours two mugs of coffee. “I must have had some time last night.”

“I guess.”

“I remember doing pushups.” He comes over and gives me a mug of coffee. “But that’s about all I remember.”

I reach down and pick up my britches.

“How’d you like the honey I picked out for you?”

I’m pulling on my pants. “She was okay.” I stand up and fasten my belt and then I stretch. “So, what are we up to today?”

“I thought we’d take a little trip,” he says, moving up the steps to the deck.

I follow him and I’m pulling my tee-shirt on and I step out into the morning. “Where are we going?”

“South.”

“Where south?”

“San Francisco.”

“Why?”

Sid looks up at the sky. “Good weather. I figure we’ll load up the deck with barrels of fuel.”

“I don’t know if I want to go all the way to San Francisco,” I tell him.

“Well, I’m going and if you want to come you’re welcome, but I ain’t gonna beg you. I got business in San Francisco and I mean to take care of her.”

I look out over the Sound. “I’ll go.”

Sid leans against the railing. “You know, I wasn’t ever happy playing baseball.”

“No?”

“No, and I resented the reason they let me into the majors.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, when I started there wasn’t but four or five blacks playing in the big leagues and they was all excellent — Jackie Robinson, Satchel Paige, and like that. And they brought me in because they was looking for a darky that wasn’t so good.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I guess they figured they had to show that dark folks could be bad, too. I mean, every black playing was great and then came Sid Willis, Mr. Below Average. And I ain’t even black.”

“You ain’t?”

“Hell, no. I’m a Narragansett Indian. I was born in Rhode Island.”

“You sure look black.”

“Well, I can’t help that. Those damn white boys on the team would call me nigger and I’d tell them I was an Indian and they’d just laugh.” He stops and looks up at the sky. “Then one season things just fell into place and I was hitting like three-fifty and they let me go.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“Because all of a sudden I was another excellent dark-skinned ballplayer, that’s why.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I says.

“That’s white folks.” He looks at me with a single raised eyebrow. “This slump of yours — pretty bad?”

I nod. “I can’t seem to get anything right. I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Problems in bed … with the wife?”

I look over the side of the boat at the water.

“That happened to me with my second wife. Her name was Wendy. Wendy the Witch. Except it wasn’t no slump that kilt my wiener. It was sober vision. I dried up and there she was. Arf, arf.”

“Well, Thelma’s no witch. And I’m sober.”

“I wasn’t saying nothing about your wife.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I was just telling you what happened to me.”

“I don’t want a divorce.”

“I didn’t want one neither.”

“But I thought you said she was a witch.”

“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t afford no divorce.” He pauses. “So, I killed her.”

I stand up straight and look him in the eye.

“Right out there”—he’s pointing out into the Sound—“I dumped her right out there. Didn’t nobody miss her. Who misses a witch?”

I chuckle.

“You think I’m bullshittin’. I killed the bitch with my bare hands clamped around her ugly throat.” His hands are up in front of him like he’s choking someone. “Then I cut her nasty fat body up into chunks and stuffed her into this great big tuna I caught. Dumped her right out there.” He’s laughing. “Too bad that fish was dead. That would have been a meal for his ass.”

“Come off it,” I says.

He just laughs. “It’s gonna take a couple of days to get to San Francisco. I figure we’ll make a stop in Oregon. Maybe Newport. How’s that sound?”

I nod.

“Right out there,” he repeats. “Damn, that was exciting.”

Chapter 12

I’m standing on deck and the early-afternoon sun is real bright and I’m practicing with my saxophone. This old pickup truck stops at the end of the pier and two young fellas hop out. One of them is skinny and he’s got a beard and the other is real big and they’re heading my way.

“Sid Willis around?” asks the beard.

“Yeah,” I says and call down into the cabin for Sid.

Sid comes up and sees the two fellas. “Good, you’re here with my fuel.”

“Yeah, the fuel,” says the big guy, with a stupid grin on his face.

The two fellas start back toward the truck and Sid turns to me. “You wanna give them a hand?”

The skinny guy turns around and says, “We don’t need any help.”

They walk on to the truck and when they get there the beard lowers the tailgate. Then this big fella picks one of the barrels up and puts it on his shoulder. He carries the drum all the way to the boat and the beard is behind him, guiding him. They do this six times.

“That’s it,” says the skinny guy with the beard.

“I’ll walk you to your truck,” Sid says and the three walk away from the boat. They stand by the pickup and chat for a while and then some money changes hands, but it ain’t clear which way it’s flowing. Sid starts back to the boat and the young fellas drive away.

“Who were they?” I ask as Sid steps into the boat.

“Discount gas,” he says. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe three. Hey, did you get money from those fellas?”

“That ain’t the way business usually goes. They give me something, I give them money.”

“It just looked like … never mind.”

I’ve got my phonograph plugged in and I’m listening to the song and I’m watching the bugs flying around the lamp on the pier.

“Unplug that thing and let’s go,” says Sid, looking out into the dark Sound.

“Tonight?”

“Best time to travel.” He looks up at the sky. “Good night for cruising.”

I’m unplugging the phonograph. “Ain’t it a little dangerous?”

“The name of the game. That’s what you need, boy, a little excitement in your life.”

I’m back on board.

“Fella named Gödel proved that ain’t no logical system complete. He had to prove it. I could have told him if he’d asked. You need a dash of illogicalness to make your life complete. Untie that rope.”

I untie the rope and then another that Sid points to and I follow him up to the helm.

“German fellas all the time trying to prove things.” The engine is on and we’re moving away from the dock. “Like that fella Heisenberg. He needed a theory to say he wasn’t sure. You’d think people could find better things to work on, like disposable wives.”

“What’s got you so uptight?” I ask him.

“I ain’t uptight.”

“You sure seem nervous.”

“Well, I ain’t.” He looks ahead.

We leave the lights of Seattle behind and we’re following the lights of the coast south and then Sid turns off the running lights.

“What did you do that for?” I ask.

“What?”

“Why’d you kill the lights?”

“Don’t need them.”

I don’t say nothing. I just look ahead into the darkness. After a few minutes I go down into the cabin and climb into bed. I figure Sid will call me when he needs a break.

It was dark and quiet. Daddy, Bud, and I were sitting on the front porch, sweating. The only sounds were crickets and the clinking of ice against the sides of our glasses of tea. Ma had sneaked away earlier. I was flooded with odd and painful concerns. I worried that I was insane like my mother. I was bothered by a smell that I imagined on my fingers from Naomi Watkins. Daddy yawned and looked at his watch.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” Daddy asked me.

“Ma.”

Daddy looked away from me and out over the yard. “Don’t worry about her.”

Bud winked at me.

“Maybe Ma could go to one of those doctors for crazy people.”

Daddy shook his head. “White people’s foolishness. Causes more problems that it cures.”

“Well, maybe she should be in a place,” I said.

“Maybe,” Daddy said, slapping a mosquito. “That would get her away from that McCoy.” Daddy looked over at Bud. “How you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Bud paused. “Doc, you sure I’m not in the way?”

“Positive.” Daddy rubbed his glasses across his forehead. “I’m sorry about my wife.”

Bud waved his hand. “Nothing to be sorry about. I mean, she is pretty interesting.”

“She’s that, all right,” Daddy said.

“What is it with this McCoy character?” Bud asked.

Daddy answered, “McCoy’s got this religious group that Kathy, for some reason, is interested in. McCoy makes me nervous. He’s crazy and I wonder how my colored wife fits in with a peckerwood like that.”

“You don’t think he’s dangerous or anything like that, do you?” Bud asked.

“I don’t know,” Daddy replied. “I guess not.”

I began to think of McCoy.

Bud broke the silence. “Seriously, Doc, you think your wife is okay?”

Daddy didn’t say anything. He just looked at the night sky. I didn’t like the pain I saw in his face. He was wearing the same concerned look he wore when I was really sick with the flu. I was seven and they thought I might die and Daddy sat by my bed all night with that look on his face. If I couldn’t hate Ma before, I was closer now.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about France,” Bud said.

“France, huh?” Daddy said.

“Yeah, I’d like to go there. You know, get away from this country. I hear things are different there, real different. People are free.”

I listened carefully to Bud’s words.

“Free. Can you imagine that?” Bud added.

Daddy chuckled and shook his head.

“Yeah, France.” Bud finished his tea and looked at his empty glass. “Think I could make a long boat trip like that, Doc?”

“After a little rest, yeah,” Daddy said.

“After a little rest,” Bud repeated. He got up and he walked into the house and he soon was playing the piano.

I looked at Daddy. “What’s wrong with Mr. Powell?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure is hot, huh, Daddy?”

“Yep.” Daddy paused. “Shit.”

Martin came home and went straight up to our room. When I finally went upstairs, I found him clipping things out of the backs of magazines.

“Sending off for stuff?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What? Soldiers? A kite?”

“None of your business.”

I was trying to make things okay, even though I was upset with him about Naomi and all. I wasn’t really mad as much as upset. He just kept going with the scissors.

Finally, we were in bed. Martin had his flashlight out, the beam moving from nude to nude. He just kept sighing and then he turned the flashlight off and pushed the magazines onto the floor. He tossed the light into the corner and sighed loudly. I closed my eyes.

My eyes open and there’s a little early-morning light floating around the cabin and I see Sid sitting by the bed, looking at me.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Drifting.”

I notice there’s no engine noise. “Drifting? Where?”

“Just drifting.” He’s got a funny look in his eyes.

I sit up and stretch and look out the window and I can’t see the coast.

“You ever think about dying?” Sid asks.

“What?”

“Dying.”

“No.”

“You oughta.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what’s the story? The motor act up?”

“This slump of yours really has you down, doesn’t it.”

I don’t say anything.

“Suicide might be a thought.”

I’m up and walking across the cabin to look through the other window. “Where the hell are we?”

“I told you. We’re drifting. We’re contemplating suicide.”

“The hell. Why are we just floating out in the middle of nowhere?”

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll kill you,” he says.

I laugh.

“I ain’t bullshittin’.”

I stop laughing. “Now, Sid….”

“What do you have to live for? Luck has decided you’re the greatest patsy since the Jews.” He stands up. “So, after this morning’s business, I’ll put an end to your miserable, pathetic life.”

There’s the sound of a foghorn outside and Sid scurries up the steps to the deck. I follow him and I see another boat and Sid is waving to them with both arms.

There are two fat men on the other boat who look sorta alike. Both of the men are about forty and their haircuts are short and greased back and they’ve got slippery black mustaches. The fat men are wearing them loud beach shirts and big baggy white pants. There are two younger men with them, big and muscular fellas, in trunks. Their boat pulls alongside of us.

“Sid,” says one of the fat man, stepping aboard, extending a hand.

Sid takes the man’s plump hand. “On time, as usual.”

The other fat man is staring at me. “Who’s he?” he asks, pointing.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Sid says.

“Which drum?” asks the first fat man.

“That one.” Sid points to the drum nearest the back of the boat.

The first fat man signals to the two big guys in the trunks. They hop across to Sid’s boat and walk to the drum. They turn the drum upright and pry the lid off and then one of them reaches down into the barrel and comes up with a dripping green plastic garbage bag. He opens the bag and pulls out a clear plastic bag of white powder. The big guy hands it over to the first fat man.

“Come on, let’s go,” says the second fat man, looking around.

“In a second,” the first fat man says, looking at Sid, who’s standing by, watching with his hands in his pockets.

“The money,” Sid says.

“In a second,” the first man repeats.

Sid pulls a gun out of his pocket. “The money.”

“Sid, slow down,” says the first fat man, “you’ll get your money.”

“The money,” Sid repeats, extending his free hand, palm up, pointing the gun at the second fat man. “Or I’ll blow your brother’s greasy head off.”

“What is this, Sid?” asks the first fat man.

“This is the Little Bighorn. This is where the Indian cuts the white boy’s tail.”

The second fat man tosses a briefcase across the gap between the two boats and it lands by my feet.

“Good,” Sid says. “Okay. Now, you two, Fric and Frac, I want you overboard. Craig, check the case.”

The two guys in trunks don’t move. I open the case and tilt it, showing Sid the money inside.

Sid fires the gun over the big guys’ heads. “Move!”

The two men jump into the water.

“Sid, you won’t get away with this,” says the second fat man.

“In the water, chubby,” Sid says and pulls the hammer of the pistol back.

The second fat man jumps into the ocean.

I look and see another boat coming our way. Sid sees it also. “Shit,” Sid says. “Okay, fatso, in the drink.”

“So help me God, I’m going to get you, Sid.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sid straightens his arm and aims the gun at the fat man’s face. “Tell it to the Coast Guard.” The first fat man joins the others in the water. The four of them are bobbing up and down between the boats and Sid is leaning over, looking at them. “I got you, you son of a bitch.” He looks at the approaching boat. “Start the boat, Craig.”

I climb up the ladder and start the engine.

“Let’s get out of here!” Sid yells to me.

I steer the boat away and then I look back and Sid is still leaning over, yelling at the men in the water. I start to think about what Sid was saying earlier about killing me and I climb down the ladder and I tiptoe up behind Sid and I push him into the water. I’m at the wheel again, driving away.

“Craig!” Sid yells and then there’s a gunshot and I look back and see Sid waving his gun in the air, keeping the thugs away. “Craig!”

There’s a blast of a voice through a bullhorn from the Coast Guard boat, but I can’t make it out. I’m just looking at the compass and heading south. When the other boats are out of sight, I head east.

As I’m nearing the mouth of the Columbia River, I look down from the wheel at the deck and I see that clear plastic bag of white powder. I climb down and I drop it overboard and watch it sink slowly out of sight.

I push on into the mouth of the river and on to Portland. I stop in Portland. I dock the boat and leave it and I’m walking through the city of Portland with my saxophone, my phonograph, my record, my bat, and now a briefcase full of money.

Chapter 13

Ma walked into my room with her head bowed. I was sitting on my bed, looking at my model plane. Ma sat beside me. She didn’t look at me.

“Grandmama’s dead,” she said.

“What?”

“Grandmama’s dead.”

I tried to look at Ma’s eyes. I could see a tear working its way down her cheek. Grandmama and Ma were close until Ma started acting so crazy. Then Grandmama just sorta stayed away_; all of Ma’s people did. Daddy didn’t have any people. His twin brother got run over by a coal truck in Birmingham. He was the last. Ma grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay,” I said.

“You’re a good boy, Craigie.” I was getting tired of hearing her say that.

“It’s okay,” I repeated.

She put her arm around me and pulled me close against her coat. I began to perspire immediately. She cried harder.

Later, Martin and I were in our navy blue suits in the back seat of the car. We were on our way to Watkins Funeral Home. It was the largest black-owned business in Fayetteville. Pernell Watkins also owned a wig shop, which his wife operated. Everyone wondered about the wigs in that shop. Especially since Joey Fields looked in the window of the shop, saw a wig, and swore up and down that it was the hair of his dead wife, Jenny Mae. The controversy grew because Jenny Mae Fields’s funeral had been a closed-casket affair. As we pulled to a stop in front of the funeral home I began to wish I was back home at the piano with Bud.

We entered the funeral home and Grandmama’s body was laying out in a coffin in this dimly lit room. Ma’s brother and her two sisters were there. Aunt Cleo and Aunt Edna were screaming and carrying on and their husbands were holding them down.

I wandered away from the room, away from the crying, and into a large office. As I looked around I thought of Pernell Watkins, the funeral director. He was tall, slender, and light-skinned. It seemed like all funeral directors were light-skinned. In the office I saw a picture of the original Watkins, a dark-skinned guy. However, as I looked at the pictures of the descendants of the original Watkins, I saw that each Watkins was lighter in color than the previous one. I figured dealing with death had that effect.

I wandered from the office, down this long corridor, and I started feeling real scared because there was this weird music playing. I walked into this large room filled with caskets. Bronze, silver, pretty wood caskets. Big caskets, small caskets, wide caskets. I stopped to look closely at one light-blue casket. I ran my fingers along the golden handles. Then I saw some dirt around the edges of the coffin. Somebody grabbed me and I screamed. It was Martin.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked.

“Look here,” I said. “Dirt.”

Martin’s eyes opened wide. “He uses the same boxes again and again.”

We heard footsteps and we ducked down and scurried back to where Daddy was. We were shaking.

“What’s wrong?” Daddy asked.

Just then, Pernell Watkins came and stood by Daddy. Martin, who was about to talk, caught himself and grabbed Daddy’s arm and whined something about Grandmama. Daddy was really puzzled and he dropped a hand to Martin’s back. Martin looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

I’m out on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and I ain’t ready to go home and I figure Sid will be looking for me, so I decide to stay put for a while. I’m in the Chinese section of Portland and I see this sign on a house advertising a room for rent. I ring the bell.

The door swings open and there’s a short, skinny Chinese man. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

“I’m here about the room,” I tell him.

“It’s a small room. Fifty dollars a week. I live here with three other men and there’s one bathroom.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t you want to see it first?”

“No.”

He lets me in and leads me upstairs and down the hall to my room. It’s a small room, like he said, with a bed and a chest of drawers and a big, soft chair.

“I’m Quincy,” says the short man.

“Craig. Craig … Sutton,” I says. I reach out for his hand and he’s got long, cold fingers that wrap around my knuckles. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll catch up on some sleep.”

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks.”

Quincy leaves me and goes back downstairs and I walk into the room and fall onto the bed. I get up and decide to wash out my clothes before I sleep.

My eyes open and I get up and plug in my phonograph. It’s dark outside and I can hear talking. I stop the music and get dressed and go downstairs. There are three men with Quincy watching television in the living room and when I walk in they all stand up. There’s a fat man in jeans and a flannel shirt and two men dressed all in gray and they’re all Chinese.

Only the fat man extends his hand and Quincy tells me his name is Thomas. I take his hand and he smiles and I smile. The other two men are named Mike and Larry and they don’t push their hands out and they don’t smile.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” says Thomas and this big fella slaps a hand on my shoulder and turns me around. When we’re out of the room he says, “Don’t let Mike and Larry bother you. They are just upset that Quincy didn’t discuss your moving in with us.”

“I could leave.”

“Don’t be silly.” He slaps me on the back and we’re in the kitchen. “Quincy makes breakfast for everybody, if you’d care for it.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s a beer in the fridge. Feel free.”

I nod. “Why are Mike and Larry dressed like that?”

“They’re in a Mao study group.”

“Oh.”

“More social than anything.” He pushes his fat fingers through his thick black hair. “Where are you from?”

“Spokane,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah? How long do you plan to stay around here?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Business?”

“Huh?”

“Business bring you down here?”

“No, uh … vacation.”

Thomas reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a beer and offers it to me. I take it and he pulls out another one for himself. “You like baseball?” he asks.

“What?”

“Baseball?”

“It’s okay.”

“The Portland Beavers are playing tomorrow … if it doesn’t rain. Wanna go?”

“Sure.”

The following day I sleep until late morning and when I finally make it downstairs everybody is gone. So, I start digging through the icebox and I really have a taste for bacon, but there ain’t a scrap of meat to be found. There ain’t nothing in the refrigerator but yogurt and beer, so I have a beer. I go back to my room.

I’m upstairs in my room playing my saxophone and there’s a knock at my door and it’s Thomas.

“You still want to catch the Beavers?” he asks.

“What?”

“The baseball game.”

“Sure.”

We leave the house and walk about a mile to the stadium and pay a buck apiece to get in. It’s a real cloudy day, but it ain’t raining and that’s all that matters. Thomas and I head up the bleachers behind home plate and his leg goes through a gap between the boards. I reach down and catch him and his hand closes around my upper arm and he’s got his balance again.

“You’re very strong,” he says, slowly releasing my arm.

I don’t say anything. I just move up, grab a seat, and look out over the field. It’s funny; there’s a lot of folks out for the game, but we’re the only ones sitting behind home plate. I’m about to ask Thomas why we’re all alone where we are when I notice how low the screen is between the batter and the bleachers. I think that many a foul ball must have come whistling back into the crowd.

“Thomas,” I says, “you may not want to sit here.”

“Why?”

“We might get a few balls our way.”

His eyes grow large. “What?”

“Foul tips might come buzzing over that low screen and pop you in the face. I just figured you should know.”

“Oh.”

I’m not sure he understands just what I’m saying, but I drop the subject.

The game starts and there ain’t much to see; just a load of fellas dressed alike, embarrassing their loved ones. Then some fella’s up and the count is full and he keeps tipping the ball straight back over the screen and I keep catching them and Thomas is real excited. Thomas is giggling and telling me how marvelous it is that I can catch like that. Finally the guy at bat pounds a long ball to left and every body cheers. So does Thomas and he stands up and when he comes down his hand lands on my leg.

“Excuse me,” he says and pulls his hand away.

It starts to rain and the game is called and Thomas and I walk back down Burnside toward home. It’s a real busy street and the rain doesn’t keep people in these parts inside. I see, in the street ahead, a man leaning over, talking to somebody in a car and it’s Sid Willis. I duck into a doorway and pull Thomas with me.

“What is it, Craig?” Thomas asks, smiling.

I don’t say anything. I am peering around the corner and I see Sid climb into the car and ride off.

“What is it?” he asks again.

“Nothing.”

We walk home and Mike and Larry are sitting in the living room, reading. They look up at me but they don’t say anything, and so I just go up to my room and listen to the song.

It’s just starting to get dark outside when Thomas walks into my room and sits on the bed.

“You like jazz, huh?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Dizzy Gillespie’s playing at the Opus Club.”

“Really?” I says, sitting erect. “Where’s that?”

“Right here in Old Town. Would you like to grab a bite and hear him?”

I pause. “Yeah.” I grab my phonograph and my record and my saxophone and I’m ready to go.

“Why’re you bringing those things?” Thomas asks.

“I haven’t played the song for you, have I?”

He shakes his head.

I plug in the record player and drop the needle down.

“Damn,” I says. “That’s something, ain’t it?”

He nods and he’s looking at me with a funny eye.

“This song just does something to me. I mean, it really gets me excitied.”

Thomas smiles. “Bring it along, bring it along.” Bud made his apologies to Ma about not attending the funeral. He said death didn’t sit well with him. I didn’t want to go either, but I had to.

The coffin was open. Grandmama was just laying there, peaceful as could be, even though there was enough crying and hollering going on to wake the dead. I looked out over the crowd in attendance. In the middle of all the dark faces dressed in dark clothes was McCoy. White as white could be. He stood out something fierce. It was difficult to look at: his pale skin, white hair, white clothes in a sea of darkness. Daddy looked back at him and frowned.

I turned to face the coffin and saw Ma summoning me with her index finger. I walked to her.

“You’re a good boy, Craigie,” she said. “Kiss your grandmother.”

I just looked at her. I wanted to back away, but I didn’t. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Kiss your grandmother,” she repeated and with that she grabbed me by the back of my head and pushed my face into the coffin. “Kiss her, Craigie.”

I felt Grandmama’s cold lips against my face and as Ma pushed harder I felt the sutures that held her mouth closed. I was breathing rapidly. I was sick.

Thomas and I are sitting at a table against the wall, far away from the band, and Dizzy walks out and starts to play. They play a long version of “A Night in Tunisia” and then I start shouting, “‘Ornithology’! ‘Ornithology’!” Dizzy begins to play the song and I fall back into my chair with a smile across my face. My hand drops down next to me and lands on my saxophone and I decide to join in. So, I stand up and start blowing and Thomas is looking around nervously and Dizzy stops playing.

“Keep going,” I yell.

This big guy walks to our table and says, “You can’t play that thing in here.”

And I yell out, “Dizzy, I went fishing with Bud Powell!”

Dizzy just stares at me and starts talking to members of the band.

“You gonna lay off that thing?” the big guy asks.

Then I hear a familiar voice. “Boy, I want my money!”

I look over at the door and there’s Sid Willis.

“I said, I want my money!” Sid starts weaving his way through the tables toward us. I pick up my things and head for the nearest exit and Thomas is right behind me. When I push through the door a fire alarm is set off and the manager is yelling at us and telling us never to come back. Thomas takes my arm and pulls me off the main street and down an alley. We make it through alleys back to the house and there’s no sign of Sid behind us.

“What was that guy talking about?” Thomas asks as we walk into the house.

“I never saw him before,” I lie and I tell Thomas I’m real tired and I retire to my room and slip into bed.

I’m laying awake and I hear Mike and Larry in the next room. I figure it’s Mike and Larry because it ain’t Quincy or Thomas and I start to listen to what they’re saying.

“I saw you!” says one.

“Calm down,” says the other.

“I saw you pissing standing up!”

“So?”

“So, I’m the dominant one in this relationship! I piss standing up! You piss sitting down! I don’t want to catch you doing it again!”

“Please, Mike. Please, don’t hit me.”

“Promise me you won’t do it again!”

“I promise. I promise.”

Then I hear moaning and groaning. I try to block out the noise and I go to sleep.

Daddy told me I better go outside. Ma was screaming at me and I was shaking. I just stood there. “Go on outside, Craig,” Daddy said. I ran outside and sat on the church steps. It was hot, but I was shivering.

Martin came out and sat beside me. “What happened?” he asked.

I just looked at him and tears came out of my eyes.

“Aunt Edna’s really screaming in there. Aunt Cleo, too.”

Martin gave me his handkerchief.

“I want to go to France,” I said.

“What?”

“I want to go to France.”

Martin tilted his head and looked at me.

“If I was in France I’d be free of everything.”

“Come on, it could have happened to anyone.”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Then the church doors opened and people started coming out. Martin and I moved off to the side. The coffin was marched past us. Aunt Cleo stared at me as she walked by and so did Aunt Edna. Uncle Ernest didn’t see me. They put Grandmama in the back of the funeral car and everybody got ready to go. Martin got into a long car with Ma. Daddy stood by the car with the door open and looked at me.

I shook my head.

He nodded.

I watched as the black cars rolled away. And in the middle of the procession of dark cars with dark people was McCoy.

I walked home and found Bud playing the piano.

“You’re back early,” Bud said.

I nodded and threw my coat down and stretched out on the sofa. We looked at each other silently for a minute. “I want to go to France with you,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“I want to be free.”

“Free, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s free?”

“Doing what you want to do.” I paused. “When you want to do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” My eyes were wet. “So, can I go to France with you?”

Chapter 14

I wake up early the next morning and I head downstairs for breakfast and when I step into the kitchen I’m speechless. All four of them Chinese fellas are naked as jaybirds and I’m frozen in the doorway. Thomas, Mike, and Larry are sitting at the table and Quincy is facing the stove, his skinny butt turned toward the table.

Thomas sees me. “Good morning, Craig.”

I nod.

“Have a seat,” says Quincy, turning to face me.

I sit down at the table and Mike and Larry are reading from little books. Every few seconds one of them taps the other and points out something in the book, but they don’t pay me any attention.

“You picked a good morning to come down for breakfast,” says fat Thomas.

“Yeah?” I glance over at the pan that Quincy is working over.

“Yeah,” says Thomas, “we’re having yogurt-and-tofu omelets.”

“We’re having what?”

Quincy answers me. “Yogurt-and-tofu omelets.”

“Oh.”

“Here you go,” Quincy says, sliding an omelet onto my plate. There’s yogurt oozing from between the lips of the thing and I’m just looking at it.

“Before it gets cold,” Thomas says.

Quincy is back at the stove, cooking, and he looks over at me and smiles.

I cut into the eggs and slice through some of that tofu stuff and it looks like turkey gelatin or something. I slowly push a bite into my mouth. I don’t like it, but I eat it, and then I reach for the juice. It’s prune juice.

Thomas is smiling at me and then he winks and I wink back and his face sorta goes red, but more orange. Thomas makes me feel odd.

I’m sitting next to the phone, which is on a table in the living room, and I pick up the receiver. Mike and Larry are discussing their little books quietly in a far corner. I’m calling Lou Tyler.

“I’d like to place a collect call,” I tell the operator.

“Name?”

“Craig Suder.”

Lou’s phone rings and Lou’s daughter picks up. “Hello.” “I have a collect call from Craig Suder,” says the operator.

“Who?”

“Craig Suder. Will you accept the charges?”

“I’m a friend of your daddy’s,” I says.

“I’ll get my daddy,” the girl says.

“Hello.” It is Lou.

“I have a collect call from Craig Suder. Will you accept the charges?”

“Where the hell are you!” Lou shouts.

“Will you accept the charges?”

“Everybody here is—”

“Will you accept the charges?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hello, Lou,” I says.

“Where the hell are you? You’ve got everybody sick wondering if you’re okay.”

“I’m in Portland.”

“What are you doing there? Come up here!”

“I was wondering if I could use your cabin at Mount Hood.”

“Get your behind up here!”

“No, I really need some more time to myself. Can I use your cabin?”

“You call Thelma?”

“The cabin?”

“Call your wife.”

“Okay. Now, can I use—”

“Yeah, you can use the cabin. Do you know how to get to it?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Thanks a lot, Lou. I’ll talk to you soon.” I hang up.

Fat Thomas comes into the room and stands in front of me. “I’m going to work,” he says.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I just look straight ahead at his stomach. I move my eyes up to his face. “Where do you work?”

“All over.”

I question him with my eyes.

“I fill vending machines,” he says. “You know, candy, cigarettes, bubble gum, little toys in plastic cases.”

“That’s what you do for a living?”

“Yeah.”

“Like it pretty much?” I’m just trying to make conversation with the man.

“Yeah. I get to move around a lot.”

“You got a truck?”

“Station wagon.”

“I see.”

“Well, I’m going to work now.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Thomas walks out of the room and out of the house. I call the bus station and I find out there’s a bus leaving at one o’clock in the afternoon for Parkdale. I go up to my room and I play my horn for a while.

At about noon I collect my belongings. I find some cord and I rig things up so that my bat and my saxophone are strapped behind me. I put my record in the briefcase with the money and I grab my phonograph and start downstairs.

The front door slowly opens and there’s Sid Willis and he’s holding a gun.

“I’m here for my money, boy,” Sid says. “Then I’m going to blast you.”

“How’d you find me?” I am taking a step backwards.

“I didn’t have any luck looking for you, but everybody knows about that three-hundred-pound Chinese she-boy.”

“Oh.”

“Now, let me have my money.”

I shake my head.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to blast you first.”

Then Thomas appears in the doorway and he raises his finger to his lips and then he throws his arms around Sid. Sid’s gun falls to the floor and Thomas’s fat arms have got the old man tied up good.

“Run, Craig!” Thomas says. “I’ve got him! Run, darling!”

“Get this funny Oriental off me!” screams Sid.

I move out of the bedroom and into the hallway. I turn again to Thomas and I says, “Thanks.”

“Somebody get this faggot off me!” yells Sid, struggling.

“Take my car,” Thomas says. “The keys are in it.”

“Thanks.”

And Thomas blows me a kiss. I frown and run out of the house and I hop into Thomas’s station wagon and drive away.

Bud was looking out the front window and then he turned to Daddy. “Doc, I wish you’d come look at this.”

His tone pulled not only Daddy but Martin and me as well to the window. Coming down the street was a white pickup truck. It was moving real slow and sitting on the lowered tailgate was McCoy in a white sweat suit, looking back at my mother, who was chasing the truck. McCoy was waving his arms, yelling for Ma to keep up the pace.

Daddy was outside in a second and we were all with him. We were in the driveway and Ma came trotting past. “Kathy!” Daddy yelled. The neighbors were out of their houses. Daddy looked around and then he picked up some gravel from the driveway. “Throw rocks,” Daddy said and ran toward the truck. Martin and I grabbed handfuls of rocks and ran, too. So did Bud. McCoy was up and slapping on the cab of the truck. Daddy threw his rocks and McCoy ducked behind the wall of the truck’s bed. We pelted the truck with gravel. Daddy picked Ma up over his shoulder and carried her into the house.

“Maybe just different,” Bud said.

Martin thought I was asleep. He pulled on his trousers and grabbed his flashlight and climbed outside through the window. I got dressed real quick and went out after him. He was halfway down the block when I was out of the tree to the ground. I followed him a good many blocks and I saw him go behind Watkins Funeral Home. My eyes got big. I couldn’t figure why anybody should be going there late at night, especially my brother. I walked down the driveway, alongside the big black cars, to the backyard. Martin was standing at the back door, knocking lightly. The door opened and Martin went in.

My wind got short and I moved around and looked at the door. I looked at that door for a long time and then I grabbed the knob. It was open. I walked in. I moved down this dark hallway. I heard noise coming from this room. I pushed the door open a crack and then I heard Martin’s voice. I walked in and in the back of this room Martin was kissing Naomi Watkins and touching her all over. Then Naomi climbed on this table and Martin got on top of her.

Just then, the door that I had come through opened. I ducked into a corner and I heard Martin and Naomi running and then the light came on. I guess they got out some way because Pernell Watkins walked past me, looking around, and then he left. He left the light on and I looked beside myself and saw jars and tubes and then I looked behind and found myself face to face with a dead person. I closed my eyes tight and stood motionless for a long time.

Chapter 15

So, I’m driving through Portland in Thomas’s station wagon and it’s filled to the gills with cigarettes and plastic bags of gum balls. There’s a box of clear plastic bubbles with little toys inside on the seat beside me and in one of them there’s an eye. The eye is staring right at me and I think of Sid and I think of fat Thomas’s arms wrapped around him. I laugh out loud.

A light rain is starting to fall as I enter this spic-and-span suburb of Portland called Gresham. There are many small houses that look alike and a lot of yellow-haired children that look alike, riding bicycles with banana seats. As I’m driving by the Gresham Mall I see a big tent and there’s a mob of people standing around. The tent looks like the one that was on the waterfront in Seattle. I pull into the parking lot and I’m out of the car, walking toward the tent, and I hear an elephant scream.

I weave through the mob and I push my way into the tent and there’s that same elephant. And that same man is barking his carnival line, but he’s got a new scam.

“Give it a try! Give it a try!” shouts the man. “See if you’ve got the brains to master this enormous beast from the jungles of the Dark Continent. If you can make the pachyderm nod his head ‘yes’ and shake his head ‘no,’ I will give you five hundred dollars, half a grand!”

I stand there for a spell, watching a number of people try to make the elephant move his head. Two boys toss a ball back and forth in front of the elephant without success. This old lady comes bouncing up and down on a pogo stick and the animal’s eyes move up and down, but not his head. I turn around and push through the crowd and I walk back to the car.

I unlock the car and I grab my bat and then I return to the tent. I pay two dollars to try with the elephant and I’m standing in line. The man who was shouting walks up to me and smiles.

“That bat won’t help you this time,” he says.

I don’t say anything.

“What do you say we make a little wager?”

I look at him and nod.

“What’ll we bet?”

I look at him for a second, then I look at the elephant. “If I can do it, you give me the elephant.”

His jaw drops and he looks over at the elephant and then back at me. “And if you can’t?”

“I’ll give you two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand?”

“Two thousand.”

“It’s a bet.” He shakes my hand and then he steps out into the middle of the tent and waves his arms for silence. A hush falls over the crowd and he turns to me and nods.

I walk out in front of the elephant and the tent is dead quiet and the elephant’s eyes fall slowly to mine. The silence is really annoying and I swallow. I raise the bat and wave it in the elephant’s face. “Remember me?” I ask the elephant. The elephant’s head moves up and down. The crowd goes “Ooooooooooo.” I look around and the silence returns. I look back at the elephant. “Do you want me to do what I did last time?” The elephant moves his head from side to side and the mob of people explodes with cheering. I turn to face the carnival man.

The man’s head is lowered and he’s heaving sighs and then he looks at me with wet eyes. “Do you know how much he eats?” he asks, pointing at the elephant.

I’m silent, petting the animal’s trunk.

“This ain’t no horse!” the man shouts and then he falls to his knees, crying.

The sounds of the crowd fade and the tent is filled with the crying of the man and I’m standing over him. I feel real bad for this fella, but I really do want the elephant. “Don’t cry,” I says to him. “I’ll pay you for him.”

He stops crying and looks at me.

“I’ll give you two thousand dollars for him.”

He gives me a vacant look.

“Five thousand.”

His eyes open wide.

I look at the elephant and then back to the man. “And ten thousand for that truck you got parked out there.”

He’s frowning. “Who are you kidding? What are you going to do? Write me a check?”

“No,” I says and I kneel down beside him. “I got the cash.”

He looks around at all the silent faces and then he whispers, “You got cash?”

I nod.

He stands up and I do, too. “Let’s step outside,” he says.

I follow him through the back flap of the tent and we’re standing by his truck. I’m looking at the tires.

“You know,” he says, “I’m real attached to that elephant.”

“He got a name?”

“I call him Sabu, sometimes. But like I was saying, I’m real attached—”

“Fifteen thousand,” I says, looking him in the eye.

He looks at the truck and peeks back into the tent at the elephant and then he turns to me. He nods.